So much for me being independent from the drug that Martine provides me. That completely whacked out, insane, completely disarming, utterly unbalancing drug. I wouldn’t even call it love or passion, or anything for that matter. Not even desire. Certainly it’s a little of all of those, but I do not love him because love to me is when two people need each other. Passionate, up to a certain measure, but I’ve no idea why since there is no hurry, and he sees me often. It’s something else, I swear, and the feeling’s amazing. It’s such an intense sensation, and sitting in the cab on my way home, and up till now, I shiver from the thought of him, the recent memory of his caresses, his sighs and the way he moved on top of me and as he comes.
I was down with the sniffles today, and didn’t feel like having sex. Before I’d met him, I’d wanted to go home actually, because I was simply feeling far too exhausted from all the flu drugs, but I thought I’d go over anyway and perhaps talk, cuddle, and just feel good being with him. When I got there however, he’d picked me up at once upon entering, placed me on the table and started kissing me. Not with any forcefulness or urgency, but as I felt, a very firm sense of wanting. The kisses and caresses were tender but oh-so-persistent, and in a few minutes I melted and desired. I still felt tired, but wanted him nonetheless.
I’ve no idea, perhaps he really wants me. I told him I’ll be leaving the country soon, in a matter of months, and he asked where, and said that he’ll look for me there, should I wish it. And he’s told me that he’s never met anyone like me, and I tell him no one else has ever made me feel so inexplicably intense.
‘You’re making yourself feel that.’ He says, brushing the hair from my face, shaking his head, and sighing.
‘That’s nearly an insult. You’re serious about me, and I can feel it, that’s probably part of the reason why. Do you not share these feelings such that you can understand the depth of how you affect me.’
I don’t understand him at all. I am sure if he even understood what he was doing half the time, he would tell me and help me comprehend how he is. But I’m afraid he doesn’t, most of the time. He knows I’m seeing other people, and he mentions it more then can be comfortable to me. It’s usually no problem talking about things like the other boys, like Élan and oh say, Mr. Big or the G-Spot. But it hurts me when he mentions it, because I do so like him, and just wish it were possible for me to be completely his without compromising the other relationships I have at the moment. In case you’re wondering, I’m especially referring to Dr. Seuss and Ethan (who is turning up on the 25th it would seem, due to him loosing a day flying east). But it isn’t of any consequence, as far as things seem to be going for now. So long as I’m able to feel that way for the few hours I spend with him, it is sufficient.
He made me tell him a secret, and I was stucked between two very difficult ones. One was the fact that I’ve prostituted myself, the other… I won’t tell. It’s honestly my deepest, darkest, most fucked up secret I wouldn’t tell anyone, aside from the Girlfriend, which I’ve already told. Of course I told him the former, and he seemed to accept it with no problems.
He started humming U2’s ‘You’ve got to get yourself together’ when I told him that, then laughed and said he was kidding. ‘You sleep with so many guys anyway, I don’t think it’s wrong at all to get something out of it. As long as you don’t feel degraded by doing it, what does it matter?’
‘It doesn’t.’ I said, resolutely. ‘But it bothers me when you keep on saying I sleep around so much, your absence would not have mattered to me. It hurts me even, when you say things like you don’t matter because I’ve got all these other people. I won’t fall and die if you left, certainly, but how I feel for you is infinitely different. It’s incomparable.’
We masturbate each other, and I can only stare intently into his eyes while jerking him off. He does likewise, and it was fascinating to observe the twitches of his face as I play. And just as interesting feeling every movement of me being observed with scrutiny. Our gazing doesn’t wane it’s attention, and I find pleasure in the need to want to close my eyes and part my lips in a sigh, but not doing so. We make love like something else, completely, and it is such voluptuous, tender pleasure. He is a wonderful fit, and so full it feels always, inside. I felt every inch of skin there was to feel, and stroked his back with the palms of my hands wishing I could just… absorb… all of him, take him completely into me, cling onto him with every fiber of myself merged together with his.
He came and collapsed over me, pressing his body against mine. I kiss his forehead tenderly and wrap my legs tightly around him, occasionally stroking the curve of his back with my toes. I felt so small under him, but at the same time like I was more powerful then he was. Metaphorically, it was almost as if I could devour him. And that sensation, along with how at the same time, I felt so tiny under him, completely blew my mind. I told him it was superficial, but I loved very much how he was so much bigger then I am. It’s everything about him. Physically, I’m sold. Most girls probably wouldn’t find him attractive, the Princess doesn’t, I know that at least. But he’s just the way I like guys to look, and to be. There’s so much that attracts me to him I won’t bother you with all of it in detail. But I like the sullen demeanor, the way he’s completely anal about certain things –a sort of pseudo primness, perhaps- the way he cares for people, and especially how he pays attention to me.
I’ve always been quite against him sending me home at night. Why should it be a problem if I stay over? Does your sleep mean more to you then my company? Why does the whole world seem to be staying over at your place, from Liz to your ex-colleagues to your father, but never me.
‘Trust me, I would kick them out if I could. But they don’t have a home here, like you do.’
‘Still doesn’t explain how your sleep can matter more then my company.’
He replies with something like how me sleeping over is really more trouble then him just not getting a satisfying sleep, and in a way I understand. I wouldn’t like to be talking to my girlfriend while another lover is lying on my bed. It would feel like betrayal to the both of them, and to myself.
I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t really matter. When he spends time with me, he really spends time with me. He’s absorbed in what I have to say, in my kisses, in the space between my legs. We had tea with me sitting on the table with his hands between my thighs, and I told him it was always a childhood fantasy of mine to being masturbated while doing the most mundane thing imaginable.
I suppose so long as I feel that absolute absorption in him for me, when I’m around, I’ll be glad for it and not mind the fact that he doesn’t allow me to stay the night. It would be preferable to staying over and having half-assed attention, because you’re around half the time. Besides, I like being kicked out by him. To be really honest, every time he does that there’s a feeling of parting that impinges on me. And it makes me feel bittersweet and wanting, and wishing I didn’t have to leave. I do not know though, if I could end up being saturated with him. It’s happened often enough, when you spend too much time with a person. But so far that’s not happened.
I’m dying from exhaustion, good night.
xoxox
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